Читать книгу The Make - Jessie Keane - Страница 28

Chapter 18

21 December

Gracie had never visited anyone in intensive care before, so she didn’t know what to expect. Claude offered to drive them to the hospital, but Gracie said that she’d drive; and she was relieved when he said he was off down the pub to meet his mates, leaving them to visit George alone.

She found a stranger lying there, his head shaven and heavily bandaged, attached to a multitude of machines. There was a tube in his mouth, another in his throat, a thing pumping air into his chest. There was a steady beep going up from one of the monitors and there was a blood-filled tube going into his wrist, with a dial endlessly turning.

They had to tap in a code on a keypad to enter the ward, where there were just six beds in a big, overheated room, each one occupied by pale, corpse-like figures hovering in the nether world between life and death.

Gracie could smell death in here.

Suze sat down on one side of George’s bed; she sat on the other. There was a small, dark-haired nurse checking read-outs, and she gave them a cheery smile.

‘They have one nurse to every patient in here,’ said Suze to Gracie.

Gracie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She stared at George’s closed eyes, his bruised and pallid face. He was still bulky – he always had been; as square and squat as a barn door, that was George – but now his bulk seemed soft, spongy, and his fingers looked swollen.

Gracie swallowed hard and remarked on this.

‘His kidneys packed up,’ said Suze, blinking back tears. ‘That’s why they’ve got him on dialysis.’ She was stroking the back of George’s hand. There was a little sensor clipped on one chubby finger, monitoring vital signs.

And he’s not even breathing for himself, thought Gracie, feeling sick.

‘What . . . what happened to him?’ she asked Suze.

‘Someone done him over. We found him at the gate. There’s a crack in his skull. They had to drain off some fluid that was pressing on his brain.’ Her voice caught and she clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a sob. ‘He’s been like this ever since we found him.’

‘He’s going to be all right,’ said Gracie, surprising herself with the need to give comfort to this woman who had never thought to comfort her.

Suze glared at her. ‘Yeah? You got that in writing, have you? That’s bullshit. They told me to expect the worst when they brought him in here. Have you any idea what that’s like, to have someone say that to you about your boy?’

‘He’s getting the best possible care,’ insisted Gracie. What was Suze attacking her for? She was here to help, that was all.

‘There could be brain damage, for God’s sake. Someone knocked the crap out of him. He could be a vegetable for the rest of his life, and you’re telling me he’s going to be fine. How do you know that he’s going to be fine?’

Gracie said nothing. It was clear that Suze needed someone to kick off at. She didn’t seem willing to do that with Claude, but – as always – she was quite happy to let her ire rain down upon Gracie’s head.

‘I don’t even know what you’re doing here,’ said Suze venomously, still glaring across at her.

Neither do I.

Gracie looked at George lying there. She had this other image fixed in her brain. Chunky little George at five on the beach at Westward Ho, wearing black bathers and a vast grin. Way back before Mum and Dad had parted company and split the family in half.

‘Has George been dating Sandy long?’

‘Not long, no.’ Suze sniffed and fished out a hankie from her bag. She honked loudly.

It felt so strange to Gracie, to be sitting here. This was George lying here in bits. And there, across the bed from her, was her mother, Suze. It was surreal. But she’d had to come. She had to be here.

‘Months, days, years?’ she coaxed. ‘What?’

‘Couple of months, she says, although George has never mentioned it. She’s keen.’

‘She must be, she’s calling herself his fiancée.’

Suze’s eyes opened wide with surprise. ‘Is she? Well, that’s a turn-up. Fiancée? Well, then she must be. You’d have thought he would have told me though. But then – you know what George is like.’ Suze’s mouth twisted in bitterness. ‘But no, you don’t, do you? You didn’t bother to keep in touch.’

Gracie stared across at Suze. ‘Excuse me, but it was you who didn’t keep in touch. I wrote to you. A lot, as I remember. That first year after you and Dad split.’

‘No you didn’t.’

‘I did.’

‘Well I never got a bloody thing.’

‘Oh come on.’ Gracie sighed. Her mother had always been a fantasist, embellishing dull reality with drama and excitement. They were so unalike, it was as if she’d been dropped to earth from another planet.

‘I didn’t.’ Suze was glaring a challenge at Gracie now. ‘You never cared about me after you and your dad left. You never gave a shit.’

‘I did. I still do. Or else why would I be here?’

‘Pass,’ sniffed Suze.

‘And while we’re on the subject of not caring, what about when Dad died? What about his funeral? You didn’t come to that. Neither did George or Harry.’

‘Look, I’m not a hypocrite. I couldn’t stand there lamenting the loss of your dad while I still hated him. And, as for Harry and George, I thought it would upset them.’ Suddenly Suze’s eyes were shifty. ‘So I didn’t tell them.’

‘You didn’t . . .’ Gracie’s jaw hit the floor. Her voice raised a notch. ‘You didn’t tell them their father had died?’

‘Can you keep it down?’ said the nurse, hurrying past. ‘They can hear you, you know. Every word, sometimes. So no arguing.’

‘Sorry,’ said Gracie.

She looked at George. Shot a glare at Suze and hissed: ‘So you’re telling me this poor sod’s lying here at death’s door, and he don’t even know his father’s gone?’

‘I couldn’t tell them,’ said Suze, lowering her voice. Her eyes were desperate. ‘They blamed me when he went and took you with him. If I’d told them he’d died . . .’

‘It all comes back to you, don’t it?’ said Gracie, shaking her head. ‘Everything’s about you. As usual.’

Suze made an agitated move with her shoulders. ‘Look, can we skip this now?’

‘Yeah. For now.’

‘You don’t know how hard it’s been,’ whined Suze.

‘Spare me.’

‘Christ, Gracie Doyle. Cold as fucking ice, that’s you. You haven’t changed a bit. You’re just like your dad; all you know is bets and odds and tells. Real life don’t matter.’

That stung.

Gracie drew breath to answer, to snap back a scathing retort, but at that moment one of George’s steadily beeping monitors started emitting a high-pitched whine instead. The nurse was there instantly, pressing a button.